The battlefield lay quiet now, thick with the acrid tang of smoke and the coppery scent of blood. The fire set to block the goblin horde still hissed behind the Ridge Wall, crackling over burnt grass and charred limbs. Beyond the barricade, the forest seemed to recoil, silence descending like a prayer. The goblin horde had scattered—some fled into the trees, others collapsed, leaderless and panicked, beneath a final hail of arrows from the wall.
Reivo knelt beside the fallen body of the goblin boss, chest heaving. The creature's lifeless eye stared up at him, the ruined socket still steaming. His hands were slick with sweat and blood—some of it his, most not. His ribs screamed with every breath.
His father limped over, dragging one leg and leaning on a splintered spear like a cane. A shallow gash traced along his jawline, still weeping. But he was alive. They were both alive.
"You alright?" he asked, voice rough.
Reivo nodded. "Think so. You?"
His father offered a thin smile. "We've seen worse. But gods, that was close."
Villagers began emerging from behind fortifications, hesitant at first, then faster as the realization spread—the battle was won. Tomas was helping lift a wounded archer to her feet, his arm in a sling but his expression alight with relief. Mira ran across the field with Senn close behind, both dodging debris and half-collapsed barricades as they searched for familiar faces.
Reivo stood unsteadily, groaning. Mira reached him first, eyes wide, face pale.
"You did it," she said, staring at the fallen boss. "You actually did it."
"It was all of us," Reivo replied, wincing as he straightened. "The trap worked. Barely."
Mira hugged him tightly. Senn arrived moments later and threw his arms around Reivo's waist, nearly knocking the breath from his lungs. The three of them stood there for a long moment—siblings forged by blood and fire, clinging to each other amid the ruins.
Absolutely. Here's the continuation with added depth, showing how the village recovers over the next few days, and giving the moment more emotional resonance:
Reivo blinked, letting the words sink in. No one died.
For a moment, all he could do was nod. Then he exhaled a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The knot of tension in his chest finally unraveled.
His father sat down beside him with a quiet groan, resting the cane across his knees. "You did well, Reivo. The plan, the timing... You saw what others couldn't."
Reivo gave a small shrug, but the pride in his father's voice meant more than he could say. "We all did our part."
For a while, they sat in silence, listening to the distant murmurs from inside the temple—the rustle of cloth, the soft voices of healers, the occasional groan of a wounded man. It wasn't peace exactly, but it was something close.
Over the next few days, Korazu slowly began to breathe again.
The goblin bodies were burned outside the village, thick smoke curling into the sky as a somber warning to any creature watching from the woods. The barricades remained up for a while longer, but the sense of dread that had gripped the village began to loosen. People laughed again, quietly at first. Children returned to the streets, chasing one another with wooden sticks, turning the memory of fear into games. The rhythm of life—so violently broken—began to stitch itself back together.
Mira and Reivo helped wherever they could, hauling supplies, reinforcing the walls, assisting the healers. Reivo found that the ache in his ribs was slower to fade than he liked, but it was a small price to pay. Every time he passed someone in the village square—someone who should have died, someone he knew by name—he was reminded that the cost could have been far greater.
On the fourth day, Elder Eduin called for a gathering. The village met in the central square beneath the great oak, its branches still bare from winter but proud in stature.
The elder raised a hand for silence, his voice steady despite the cane he now leaned on. "We faced what should have broken us. A dungeon breach—without a single Awakened to defend us. And yet here we stand."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
"We were tested," he continued, "and through courage, unity, and the sharp minds of our young—" his eyes flicked to Reivo, "—we endured."
A small round of applause broke out, followed by more, until the square filled with clapping and cheers. Reivo shifted uncomfortably under the attention but allowed himself a smile. He didn't feel like a hero. He felt like a survivor. Maybe that was enough.
Later that night, a bonfire was lit. Music returned to Korazu. Not grand or loud, but warm. Familiar. The kind of music played with simple flutes and hollow drums, accompanied by worn shoes tapping gently on stone. Reivo sat by the fire with Mira and their parents, their shoulders brushing in the dark. His mother leaned her head on his father's shoulder, and for a little while, the nightmare of the past week faded into the glow of firelight and laughter.
The village had endured.
And so had he.